


Sketched

by remolupin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remolupin/pseuds/remolupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Remus draws, Sirius is drawn, and Peter secretly ships it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketched

It was no secret that Remus was something of an artist.

James was the first to notice the little sketchpad he kept with him, all the way back in first year (which was rather surprising, considering the obsessively close watch Sirius kept over their peaky little friend for a good year and a half. Then it transformed into something less obsessive and more friendly, although with less personal space for both parties). Sirius had asked to see (well, more demanded. He was a rather high-and-mighty eleven year old) and, to his astonishment and chagrin, Remus had refused, turning red and stuttering out that it was rather personal, that he was truly sorry but he simply couldn’t. Sirius had merely nodded in faux-understanding and became completely determined to at least catch a glimpse of whatever might adorn the pages, no matter what it took.

Unfortunately for Sirius, Remus was more than vigilant when it came to his book. He kept it well shielded whenever he took it out in class, even going so far as to cast a visual blocking spell once he figured out the right wandwork. He would keep it at just the right angle in his lap during meals, sketching with a Muggle pencil between the laughter and jibes and food that filled the hours. When Sirius went searching through his trunk one night, he found several identical books, without the wear of the one he was familiar with and with blank pages instead of what he was really aiming to see. He then realised, upon a thorough search of Remus’s frumpy jumpers and parchment and various other personal assortments, that he had to keep it on him. Remus snored softly at his revelation.

Sirius made another quick discovery when he tried to look under Remus’s pillow.

“S’rius.” Remus glared. _Right_ , Sirius thought. _Of course he’s a light sleeper_. “Stop it.”

“I just want a peek, Rem! It won’t take me but a minute, and then you can go right back to sleep.”

“I told you before, Sirius. It’s private.” Remus huffed quietly, reaching under his pillow to make sure his sketchpad was secure. “Please stop trying to get at it. It’d make life easier for all of us.”

James’s stupid cuckoo clock chimed three from behind them. Sirius looked like he wanted to argue, Remus just looked a bit more world-weary than usual. “Fine,” Sirius grumbled, pushing gently on his shoulder. “I’ll stop. But only if you let me in with you.”

The other boy rolled his eyes but even Sirius was able to see the small smile as he scooted over, no matter how annoyed he tried to be. “You’re like a ruddy dog, you know. Always getting where you’re not supposed to.”

Sirius grinned as he slid under the covers, throwing a companionable arm over his friend’s stomach. “Course I am. But I’m _your_ ruddy dog.”

He kept true to his word and didn’t try to reach under the pillow again, opting to fall asleep with Remus’s fingers threading through his hair instead.

\---

History of Magic, Sirius had decided, was his least favourite class ever. That prize had previously been taken by Potions, just because it absolutely killed him to be beaten by Snape for the top scores, but History definitely, _definitely_ took the cake. He wouldn’t even be there at all if Remus hadn’t convinced him to take it with him, using those terrible wide eyes and that painfully hopeful smile. He had half a mind to be silently annoyed with him for the rest of the block for it all.

A well-aimed note hit him on his ear and landed in front of him, and Remus, the little devil, ignored the glower Sirius sent his way. As he unfolded it, however, Sirius's glower cleared well away and his annoyed half-mind shut itself up. A rather crude but accurate drawing of Binns was etched in the corner of the parchment, chalk in hand and a speech bubble over his head, reading _And although this Goblin war hasn’t actually happened yet, there’s no reason not to study it now_.

It was the first time Sirius had seen any of Remus’s art, and hell, he’d never heard him make fun of a teacher before either.

He glanced over at Remus, whose jaw was clenched just so, fingers gripping the quill a bit too oddly. He was nervous, Sirius realised with a start. Remus hadn’t been this sort of nervous around him in years. But then, he guessed, this was the first time he’d seen his art, the first time Remus volunteered something like this to him. It was special, then. To the both of them.

Around this time, Sirius also realised that he wanted two things: to see more of Remus’s drawings, and to kiss that nervousness right out of him.

He settled for writing back a jovial _Haha, good one Moony!! Never knew you had it in you!!_ on a different parchment, tucking the drawing into his pocket with an absurd amount of care. If Remus noticed, he gave no indication. Or so Sirius thought, until he saw the tell-tale dimple in Remus’s cheek, which generally meant he was hiding one of those stupidly wonderful Moony-grins that made Sirius’s heart ache to see.

That night, he put Moony’s drawing in his bedside drawer, careful to keep it nice and hidden and his. He could feel Remus watching from his bed and he turned with a grin.

“Budge over, yeah?”

Remus smiled back, ducking his head to hide another Moony-grin. Sirius lifted his chin with a finger, eyes crinkling at the sight. Remus’s cheeks were pink and his eyes a bit shocked, but the grin remained in place.

“I really love your smile,” Sirius stated. It was innocent and honest and Remus shook his head, trying to duck his head again. Sirius caught the side of his face in his hand, rough fingertips over his freckles. “Stop it, I do!”

“Shut it.” Remus averted his eyes, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. “It’s all—“

“It’s nice.” Sirius’s voice was low but clear, and Remus was pretty sure he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in it forever. “Really. It’s one of my favourite things about you, when you do that Moony-smile.“

Remus bit his lip but met his eyes. It could have been a trick of the light, he thought, but Sirius’s face seemed to be getting closer. “I-I—“

“So are you poufs gonna make out or can I turn off the light?” Peter grumbled, already half-asleep.

Sirius joined Remus in his blushing this time, quickly climbing in beside him and nearly rejoicing as the dark enveloped them all. Remus’s hand found his under the blankets.

Even if he didn’t get see any more drawings, and even if he didn’t get a kiss, he thought the day had turned out really rather wonderful.

He still hated History of Magic, though.

…

Quidditch practice during the cold months could make a weakling into a warrior, Sirius knew this for a fact. The wind stung their cheeks and it kept _sleeting_ , and if that wasn’t proof that there was pure evil in the world, he didn’t know what was. It was miserable and hard and made all of their muscles ache and bones creak, but none of them wanted to miss any practice. The Quidditch Cup had to be theirs this year, redemption needed to be earned for Slytherin’s success the last season.

But he had fleeting thoughts, forty feet in the air with his sweat freezing to his face, that he would fucking _hand_ it to them if it meant a seat by the fire and a cup of cocoa in his hand.

“Oi,” James called from a few feet away, nodding to the sidelines. “S'that Moony?”

A solitary figure was seated in the stands, red and gold scarf waving in the wind, furiously working on whatever he was hunched over. “I think so,” Sirius replied, trying for nonchalance. He felt a rush of renewed excitement and a dash of giddiness, and ended up executing five perfect beating moves in a row before practice was over. He felt warm all over when he landed, even with his bones a frozen mess and his nose rosy red.

Remus made his way down from the stands, unwrapping his scarf and putting it around Sirius’s neck as soon as he got to him. Sirius felt another rush of warmth and a bit of pink rushed to his cheeks that wasn’t due to the cold.

“It’s f-freezing,” Remus's teeth chattered as he tucked his sketchbook into his robe. “Let’s get inside—“

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Sirius grinned and pulled him close, wrapping his arm around his waist and pulling him into a run, the desire to get close to a fire winning out over his protesting legs.

Sirius hopped into the dorm’s showers as quickly as he could, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the heat. He could hear Peter telling Remus he had some study date in the other room and Remus wishing him luck, saying he was going to hang out with Sirius. He felt another surge of delight run through him, remembering Remus in the stands and Remus’s scarf around his neck and Remus’s scent that still lingered around him.

When he came out, clad only in pyjama pants and Remus’s scarf wound round his neck, Remus gave a Moony-grin with a bonus wonderful Moony-laugh. Sirius laughed in return and padded over, splaying himself shortways across the bed. Remus grabbed his sketchbook before doing the same, his hip touching Sirius’s and his head on Sirius's shoulder. He opened his book carefully and Sirius stared, almost entranced, feeling like all the secrets of the universe could probably be revealed if he saw what was in it.

Remus glanced at him before adjusting himself to where Sirius had no hope of seeing, carefully tearing out the page he was looking for and tucking the book safely back under his pillow. He handed the drawing to him without a word, eyes eager for something and fingers clutching the blanket with the same odd grip he used on his quill.

It was him, Sirius realised. His beater’s bat was poised to swing, his practice gear shining with the freezing rain. He wasn’t smiling but there was a look of intense concentration and _wow_ , Sirius thought, _I really hope Moony always sees me like this because I really don’t think I can compete_.

“Ah, it’s, ah.” Remus bit his lip, looking away. “I know I’m not, ah—“ Sirius felt the sure tidings of one of Remus’s famous self-depreciating sprees.

“It’s really fucking great, Moony.” He grinned. “Although you’ve got to give me more credit, my hair usually looks way better than this—“

Remus smiled slowly, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’ll give credit where credit’s due. I know it does.”

“That’s not to say yours is too bad. You’ve got those lovely curls—“ he reached up, running his hand through them. Remus flushed even more under his touch. “But you don’t properly beat yours into submission.”

Remus leaned into his hand a bit, smiling down at him. “I haven’t got enough motivation. No one, um. No one to look nice for.”

“I can think of a few people who’d be glad for you to. Well. I know of one in particular who—who thinks you look nicer just--like this.”

“What?” Remus lowered himself onto his side, leaning on his elbow and looking over at him. “All shabby and scarred and—“

“Yes. Just like this.”

Remus smiled slightly, moving a bit closer. “I appreciate the sentiment, Padfoot, really I do—“

“Yeah, well, it’s not a sentiment. It’s the truth.” Sirius rolled over to face him fully, pushing himself up the same way. It was rather hard to not take note of the few short inches between their lips, and Sirius planned to fix that distance quite soon.

Remus shrugged, glancing down. “You—you might be the only one that thinks so,” his voice was quiet, and there was a graphite smudge across his cheek. Sirius had never seen anything more endearing.

“Would that be so bad?” He could feel Remus’s breath on his lips, he could count Remus’s eyelashes if he tried, he could almost feel the brush of skin that had become nearly all-encompassing, he could—

“SIRIUS, YOU TOSSER—“ James shouted, throwing the door open. “IF YOU USED ALL THE HOT WATER AGAIN—“

Sirius groaned, closing his eyes in a loathing pinch and rubbing his hands over his face as he rolled onto his back. “I DIDN’T, ARSE, FUCK OFF.” When he looked back, Remus had gone back to his sketchbook, breathing roughly and fingers just barely shaking.

He debated hexing James’s cock off, but settled for putting itching powder in his sock drawer. He needed a revenge that would at least last him through the week.

\---

Throughout the next few months, Sirius gained quite the collection of original Remus Lupin sketches. There was one of Padfoot chasing birds, another of Lily giving James a well-practiced smack to the head, and even one of Professor McGonagall, although it held no satirical value like Binns’s did, an almost fond look to all of her features. The others varied widely; from Gryffindor crests on scraps of parchment to scenes in the common room on stockier pieces of paper. They were simple things, some had more detail than others, some were done in obvious haste and others carefully and meticulously, but they were all lovely and wonderful and _Remussy_ and it was almost just enough, to sit and look through his little collection of Remus.

But then he’d catch a glimpse of Remus’s smile, or hear his laugh, or even just think of all that he is, and he’d know that it wasn’t.

He was going through his prized pile of drawings one night, while Peter was out on a date and James was attempting to woo Lily in the commons (although he had changed tactics; being less of an arse seemed to be working in his favour), and Remus was in the shower. Well, supposedly in the shower, leading Sirius to jump a good ways in the air when he heard a throat clear behind him.

“Sorry.” Remus shifted his weight. “I, um.” He held out one of his worn sketchbooks, blinking quickly and not meeting his eye. “Here, ah. This is for you—well. If you want it, I mean and—and I’m going to go shower for a few hours and don’t—don’t let anyone else see, and—“

Sirius stared. “Are—are you sure?”

Remus nodded quickly, holding out the books more insistently. “Take it. Before I change my mind.” He glanced up, amber meeting silver for a quick minute before ducking away again. “Please.”

Sirius took it almost gingerly, and Remus hurried into the bathroom as soon as it was out of his hands, the door closing firmly behind him. Sirius waited a solid five minutes before even thinking about opening them, swallowing thickly once he heard the shower start running, looking down at the top of the book. It was now or never, he decided, and opened it before Remus could have the chance to come take it back.

The first page held a note, written in Remus’s half-cursive scrawl and strange quill-hold.

 _Sirius_ , it read. _This is for you. As in really really for you, to keep or throw out or, god, burn it, please. If you don’t like it, I’m sorry, and please don’t be freaked out, alright? It’s not really, well. It’s not good, a lot of it, and there’s understandable reason to be freaked out but please don’t freak out. Thanks. –R_

With a deep breath, Sirius delved in.

There were more of Padfoot—leaping in leaves and curled up in the Shack or giving a doggy grin towards his hand. There were more Quidditch ones, as well, with victorious punches and a well-swung-at Bludger, and even one with a celebratory hug between him and James.

They were all of him, in various stages of sleeping or smiling or drooling on a textbook, and all meticulously done—every eyelash in order and his nose always in place—enough that it all felt almost Dorianesque. A few of the larger drawings were dated, one the night of that first near-kiss, another of the second—but there were dates he didn’t recognise, above his own face drawn with harsh, dark lines, and to the side of his back with his shoulders small and almost delicate. The date of his birthday showed him in the dorm window, head tilted back and smiling almost sadly at the stars. Remus’s birthday was up-close and grinning, his fingers clutching on what he knew was Remus’s favourite jumper. James’s birthday showed him drunk and half-naked with a bottle in hand and top hat on his head. The smile that came from the site was wiped away by the date after the Prank, the lines of his face angry and jagged and his eyes squeezed shut, the day after had him dark and brooding and folded over himself, the next he was staring blankly at the floor—it continued, the varying stages of remorse, until there was a week without pictures, and when they picked up a few days later, he was always small and tired and far away.

A full month of drawings later, and he appeared closer again, head in Remus’s lap and arms around him, grasping his jumper and determined to never let go. Moony had said he’d forgiven him long before that, but Sirius supposed that was when his forgiveness started mattering more than his own self-loathing. The next sequence of pages were all nearly the same, with Sirius’s face close and tight looking, even though he was fast asleep in every one. They progressed, slowly but surely , to his eyes half-open, watching Remus sleepily from his lap, fingers under Remus’s shirt and no doubt on the scar on his hip Sirius had always been fond of; then kept on, to Sirius smiling again, or laughing, or hand outstretched as he slept to make sure Moony was there beside him.

It was seeing himself through Remus’s eyes, stark and laid bare and painted in emotion. It was painful and lovely and heart-warming and blood-freezing all in one. Sirius wasn’t sure he could return from it.

The squeaking of a trunk pulled him away, however. Remus winced at the noise, glancing up at him. He was nervous, Sirius knew, his jaw clenched, fingers shaking, cheeks red. And it appeared that he was trying to sneak out.

“I, uh. Hoped you wouldn’t notice.” Remus mumbled, tugging on the hem of his jumper.

“I did,” Sirius replied, biting his lip and looking back down to the book. “Remus, I—“

“Don’t, Sirius, I said keep it or burn it or do whatever with it but don’t think—“

“I don’t think, you twat, let me finish.” Sirius then realised that he didn’t have anything to say, and settled for staring at him. Remus’s eyebrows were raised expectantly, tugging at his hem, trying to decide where to look.

After a few prolonged moments of silence, Remus’s eyes met his. “Erm?”

Sirius knew there would be a breaking point, but he did not think that would be it. He slid the book full of himself off his lap, and stood, dropping to his knees in front of Remus, grabbing his face in his hands and finally, fucking finally, having Remus’s lips on his own, tasting Remus on his tongue, feeling Remus do the same to him, hearing Peter yelling _MERLIN!_ from the door—

“I AM LITERALLY GOING TO KILL YOU,” Sirius shouted as he pulled away to find Peter staring in horrified fascination, James cackling madly behind him. He made a quick grab for his wand, stopping only to see Remus with a lopsided Moony-grin on his face and a dazed look in his eye, and kissing him once more. There were a million promises behind it, they both knew, but there were things to be taken care of before they were fulfilled, and their rubbish friends ran away screaming as Sirius chased after them.

\---

Their flat wasn’t new by any means—it was run down in some parts, there was a trick to getting the stove to turn on, and there was a mouse living in the cupboards that neither of them had the heart to get rid of—but it was home.

They made sure to christen every room (several times over), to plaster up photographs and memories and concert posters wherever they could, and to have everyone over for takeout and beer and a movie at least once a week. It wasn’t long before it was entirely theirs, with curry boxes on the table and Sirius’s clothes over the fan.

It took a little bit longer for Remus’s clothes to join his, however, and even longer for his art to grace the walls. But Sirius soon made another important revelation, in that Remus’s skills weren’t limited to pencil and paper. There were charcoal stains on the countertops, now, and, on really, really wondrous occasions, paints spread over Sirius’s back. There were shirts Remus had to allocate to his oil paintings, because really, it was too much of a bitch to even try to get out, and Remus’s face always had a dark smudge across his nose or something smeared across his cheek. He continued to be the most beautiful thing Sirius had seen.

Sirius kept the little sketchbook full of _him_ near and safe at all times, even though Remus’s art now covered the walls and floors and himself. There were more portraits of Sirius now—quite a few painted or drawn late at night, with only a sheet to cover them both (if there was anything at all). Sirius filled himself up with Remus and Remus did the same, any way they could.

Sirius was particularly fond of getting his favourites permanently done, inked into his skin and only letting Remus see once they were fully healed. Remus always paid special attention to these tributes in his sketches, as well as with well-placed kisses whenever Sirius could convince him to put the pencil down and come back to bed.

It was a bit messy, with papers scattered everywhere (including the bathtub, somehow) and clothing strewn about (pulled away in the heat or pulled on in the cold but always managing to be torn off in their rather bruising throes of passion) and empty bottles and boxes all around, but it was, really, a place of dreams.


End file.
